


i would sell my sorry (lying) soul for sleep

by Rikkapikasnikka



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Bullying, Character Study, Childhood Memories, Compulsive lying, Gen, Minor Injuries, Pre-Canon, Semi-autobiographical, no salt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:15:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28055247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rikkapikasnikka/pseuds/Rikkapikasnikka
Summary: Children don't start out as liars, manipulators, and master planners.There's a process that is learned, defences that are built, plans that are subconsciously followed. There's a desire for importance, for appreciation, for love. But when there's no one around to show them how...A semi-autobiographical, character study on Lila Rossi's childhood.
Relationships: Lila Rossi & Lila Rossi's Mother
Comments: 21
Kudos: 52





	i would sell my sorry (lying) soul for sleep

**Author's Note:**

> The following story is semi-autobiographical in nature. Aspects of it are taken from my own life and weaved into the story to create it. Some parts are falsified or dramatised for story-telling purposes. I will not be clarifying which parts are autobiographical and which parts are not. For some context, I have struggled with compulsive lying since I was a child.
> 
> I politely ask for no hate, harassment, salt, bashing, or arguing in the comment section. If I receive any, they will be deleted and comment moderation will be turned on.
> 
> A big thank you to  Missnoodles, the beta for this story. I appreciate your encouragement, your kindness, and everything you do for me <3

The first time Lila told a lie, she told the truth.

She was seven. Scared, vulnerable, and young, Lila was the new girl at the school daycare. She was the first to be dropped off, the last to be picked up, and they took her to class somewhere in the middle.

She spent all day in that school, in those classrooms, at that playground, with those teachers. All-day, every day.

So when Lila finally made friends, she was ecstatic. And when those friends betrayed her and lied, she was hurt.

"That's not what happened!" Lila cried, stomping her foot. Her mamma was on the couch, tapping away at her laptop, probably still working. Always working. Never listening.

"Lila, the teachers already--"

On the other side of the coffee table, Lila started to pace. She went back and forth, her fists clenched tight. "Those boys are  _ lying! _ I didn't do anything, I didn't touch them, I--!" 

"Lila." The tone of her mother's voice was final as she looked up from her work. Lila went still and quiet. "Those boys were _ bleeding. _ Please don't lie about this."

_ I'm not! _ She wanted to scream, to yell, to cry. But…

The only thing she could say was, “It’s not fair!”

“I don’t care if it’s fair.”

That look on her mother's face was final. Resolute. Unwavering. She could no longer be swayed by Lila's version of events when another adult had already informed her otherwise. Decisions and solutions and a fear unlike any Lila had ever known raced through her head--and she chose the simplest path.

To go along.

To lie.

"Okay, mamma…" Lila wilted. "I'm sorry."

"Go to your room, then. I'll call you when dinner is ready."

But Lila's mother wasn't even watching to make sure her daughter obeyed. 

* * *

The next time the boys tried to play with her, Lila was quiet. She had been hurt, and she was reluctant to engage with them again, partly in fear that they would again twist whatever game they had in mind in their favour. If anyone tried to approach her, Lila’s plan was to ignore them and hope that they got bored and went away. 

But her plan was doomed to fail.

Every evening, after roll call and homework, the daycare workers allowed the children to play outside until the sun went down. Lila had brought herself and her toys to the playground sandbox. Far from the swings, the jungle gym, and the monkey bars, the sandbox provided her some semblance of privacy. Perhaps she could’ve run across the field and wandered along the perimeter of the fence, but then she would’ve been easier to pick out. 

She had turned her back to the rest of the daycare kids, so she could hide the toys she had brought from home. Animal figurines, one each in blue and green and yellow and red, that she cherished and loved. 

However, her decision to hide here, away from all the other children, was obviously not working. 

“C’mon Lila, we want to play!” one of them said cheerily, almost sincerely.

“I’m playing alone,” she bitterly replied, curling in further to hide her toys. 

“That’s no fun. Don’t you want to have fun?” the older of the two mocked. 

Both of them were older than her by a few years and towered over her. She was short, and they were tall; she was seated, and they were standing.

“Not really,” she said smoothly. Now that she knew she could lie, she was going to use it to get out of this. Lila had no idea if she was good at it, but she had a dozen stories in her head, a dozen possibilities, a dozen words and phrases at fringes of her mind. She had thought about them all night, all morning, all through class: She would not be made a fool of this time.

If they refused to leave her alone, she would make a fool of  _ them. _

“Well, we want to have fun!”

And one of them reached for her, grabbed her arm, and Lila spun away, trying to pull herself free. She kicked up sand, her skirt flapping as her legs flailed, but all she did was pull the boy down on top of her. He grunted as he hit the sand, and his friend snarled something awful--a cuss word, maybe--before kicking her toys across the sandbox.

“No!” Lila screamed, scrambling to get out from under her supposed-friend. She kicked him in the gut, on accident, and started frantically scouring the sandbox for her toys. Her  _ dad _ had bought her those! They were special! They were important!

“You jerk!” yelled the boy who had been kicked, reaching out to grab Lila’s ankle. Her shoe came off in his hand. “You hit me!”

“Let me go! Let me go!” Lila flailed again, but neither one of them were touching her. “Just let me go! You’re the jerk! Those are my toys!”

“Yeah, and you’re ugly!” He chucked her shoe across the field, and it landed somewhere in the grass, hidden.

His friend was still kicking up the sand, kicking her toys everywhere, laughing as he did so. And Lila was left floundering, running her fingers through the small dunes, trying to find what belonged to her. The first boy grabbed her other ankle and took her other shoe, but Lila kicked him off and ignored him as he threw that one too. She finally wrapped her fingers around the small, purple bag her animal figures had come in; she shook out the sand, and then she glared at the second boy.

And pushed him.

“Hey!”

His face contorted into an ugly scowl as he stumbled but didn’t fall. Lila growled back.

“Leave me alone!” she screamed, her own voice shrill. “You’re not my friends!”

“You’re just mad ‘cause you’re ugly!” he retorted, reaching forward and grabbing at her skirt. Lila tried to twist away, but her lopsided stance and the sand’s easy give were against her, and just as his fingers wrapped around her clothes, she slipped. 

And the skirt ripped. 

They were both laughing now, as she sat, nearly crying in the sand. One of the teachers finally yelled at them, and both boys cursed again before hightailing it out of the sandbox. Lila sniffled heavily and tried to rub grit from her eyes, before searching for the toys that had been scattered.

“Lila, did you say something to them? Did you attack them again?” the teacher asked as she approached the sandbox, arms crossed. Without hesitating, Lila gave a big sniffle, the clog in her nose moving further up.

“I didn’t do it!” she pouted, already shifting more sand away. She found one of her toys, a small, red reptile, and she put it into the dirty purple bag. “Th-They came over here, and pulled my hair, and tried to kick me! And they called me ugly!”

The teacher looked doubtful for a moment, but then her eyes must’ve caught sight of Lila’s torn skirt and missing shoes. “Oh, sweetie…” she breathed, uncrossing her arms.

Lila sniffled again, although it hurt. 

“Did they grab at you?” the teacher asked, finally kneeling down in the sandbox. Lila nodded.

“They tore my mamma’s skirt!” Lila wailed, moving more sand. “And they kicked my dad’s toys!”

“Here, honey, I’ll help you look.”

Together, the two of them looked through the rest of the sandbox, pushing aside dunes until they even hit the bottom of the box, but although they found the green dog and the yellow mouse, they still hadn’t located the blue turtle by the time the sun started to set. 

“Lila hun, I think we need to go back inside,” the teacher mumbled, pushing back Lila’s hair. Real tears had long since started to fall down her cheeks; she had  _ lost _ her dad’s toys. The toys her dad had bought specially for her. One of the only things she had of him.

“Please,” Lila begged. “Please, I need to find it! There’s one more! We need to find it!”

“I’m sorry, sweetie, we have to go inside. It’s too dark to keep looking. We’ll look tomorrow after class, okay?” The teacher stood up, dusting off her pants and shirt. Sand dust was still gathered at her knees and calves, but Lila didn’t care.

“No!” she sobbed. “It’s important! It’ll be gone by then! Someone will steal it!”

“Nothing can be done, Lila. We have to go inside now.”

_ "Please!" _

But what the teacher said was true; nothing could be done. The blue figurine was never found, and Lila went home with a sour pout and a gentle note from the teacher. The boys were scolded heavily. Despite their competing story to her exaggerated tale, no one believed them.

Lila didn't care about the ripped skirt or her lost shoes as she sat in her mamma’s car. 

But she did sob over the lost toy.

* * *

Learning to exaggerate the truth was easy; children did it anyway, and Lila loved to blow things out of proportion. She quickly learned how big was too big, how small was too small, and what details could be used to weave the story in her favour. She could purposefully trip, or mess up, or slip and drop things, just to blame someone else. 

The first rule: Earn Pity.

When she was eight, the kid in front of her at the checkout line in the library puked all over her dress. When her mother asked about the clothes, Lila told her the truth.

The next day, Lila cried and complained of a stomach ache, proclaiming herself too sick to go to school. Her mamma called the school, Lila stayed home, and her mother worked in the office. For most of the day, Lila played in her room, alone, enjoying the silence. When she returned to school the next day, Lila told a drastic tale of many hours in the bathroom, so sick she could barely drink water.

The second rule: Act Cool.

When one of the popular girls and her group of friends tried to question Lila about her apparently horrible outfit, Lila crossed her arms and tilted her head. She looked the other girl up and down, with a calculating eye. Lila knew little about clothes; her mother dressed fancy for meetings and parties, but that was the most Lila ever saw.

“And what,” Lila started, trying to pull together a story.  _ “My _ clothes are from Milan. Did you get yours from Rennes?”

It earned Lila a few giggles from the other girls.

The next day, a few of them asked Lila about the northern parts of Italy.

The third rule: Be Smart.

This last rule was the most important, and the most difficult. Lila had to not only be smarter than her peers, but also more clever, faster thinking, and on top of it all, more interesting. She told of her grandmother in Milan and how they would explore the Roman ruins together. She loved reenacting a tale of how she snuck into the Furniture Fair, sat on every new chair like it was a throne, and made friends with an aspiring designer (who eventually helped bring her home). She weaved small facts of Italian intrigue and Roman wonder into her everyday life, to mystify her peers, to wow her friends, to feel more important than what she really was.

And Lila had to pretend to know more than she actually did. But that became easier and easier to do, as her grades improved and her peers continued to look up to her.

* * *

But when Lila was ten, she was struck by a van while on her bike.

Heart in her throat, her lungs on fire, Lila stood off to the side as she trembled. She knew how lucky she was--this was a neighbourhood road, the van had only clipped her front tyre, they had hit the brakes--but she just couldn’t process what she was seeing. The boys in the van were desperately fixing her bicycle, tightening bolts and screws, and Lila stood there, rubbing her arms and trying to remember how to breathe.

She swore she had looked both ways.

The road had been clear. She remembered looking. The van… It was grey. Maybe it had blended with the asphalt. Maybe it had just turned onto the street. Maybe she just...hadn’t seen it.

But Lila  _ remembered. _ She had seen the clear road. She had looked both ways. Twice. Like her father had taught her.

She rubbed her arms again. It was summer, so why was she so cold?

“You should’ve looked!” the eldest boy yelled, coming back over to her. He looked angry, but also scared, and Lila clung to that.

“I did!” she retaliated, but he shook his head vigorously and pointed at the bike. “I really did! I looked both ways, and--”

“You just darted into the street, you didn’t even stop! You could’ve been really hurt, you’re lucky we saw you and--”

But he was rambling, and Lila was tuning him out.

A new possibility had come over her, and she was swept away like a leaf on the surface of a tumultuous river, the rapids slamming her against rocks and twisted branches of driftwood. Had she lied? Had she lied to herself without realising it? Had her own brain lied about the memory?

Did lying work  _ both _ ways? Could she lie to herself about what she had seen, create false memories that she believed were true, manifest her own reality that wasn’t really real?

The boy seemed to realise that she wasn’t responding, and his face fell. “Hey, little girl,” he said, bending down to be at her level. “You’re okay, yeah? You’re not hurt?”

Lila’s eyes flickered to his face, and she nodded. “I’m fine, just… Just shaking.”

“That’s normal, I think. You’ll be careful on the way home, right?” 

She nodded again.

“Good. My friends are fixing the bike, it’ll be good as new, okay? Your parents won’t even know what happened.”

Some part of her knew what he was suggesting: Please don’t tell your parents, please don’t get us into any trouble, please don’t tell anyone this ever,  _ ever _ happened.

Lila nodded. Again.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and the boy sagged in relief and walked back to his friends, back to her bike. He inspected it, and then he brought it back to her, pushing it along. He cleared his throat, presented it to her, and with trembling hands, Lila took it.

It felt heavy under her palms, like iron weights instead of mere aluminium. 

The wheel wasn’t bent at all. The frame was even. It was a little scuffed, but Lila could probably get away with saying she had fallen. The tyre looked fine. The spokes were all there. The paint was chipped.

She got on top of it, balanced herself, and pedalled back home without saying anything else.

Her mother was surprised to see her back so soon; Lila had been going to meet a friend at the park, on her own, and wasn’t due back for another hour.

“She couldn’t come after all,” Lila lied. “So I just came home.”

“Ooh, I’m sorry sweetie. Maybe next time.” She hadn’t even looked up from her laptop.

Lila jerked her head, wondering why her mamma had believed the lie, and yet no one could believe the truth.

Why Lila herself found her own truth suddenly so hard to embrace.

The event solidified the learning, the behaviour, the fundamental rules--and Lila was doomed to repeat the process. And repeat. And repeat. And  _ repeat. _

* * *

Her grandparents gifted Lila with a computer on her twelfth birthday. Access to the lightning-fast environment of the internet sucked her in, hook, line, and sinker.

Lying on the internet was easy, especially to anyone obviously her own age. It was simple, straight forward, and with a wealth of information at her fingertips from search engines to wikis, nothing was out of reach. All of it could be manipulated: her age, her sex, her location, her language, the very fabric of her  _ life. _ Fooling children around the web with photographs and fantastical stories quickly became Lila’s favourite pastime; it satisfied her longing to feel wanted, to feel important, to feel special. 

Not that she was aware she had such a longing. 

Not that she was aware that she was trying to satisfy it. 

> My parents work the Arctic circle, we have a team of sled dogs, oh yes here are pictures!  
> 

_ All the pictures were rather boring huskies and malamutes, brown and black and grey, never all white, never odd eye colours, never surrounded by nothing but snow or scraggly plants. Cute dogs, but boring dogs in the end. _

> My mom passed away two years ago and I got sent to live with my dad in America. English is hard, but I'm learning! Please be kind! I have two cats, a tabby and a tortie, and I play a lot of video games because I don't have many friends yet.

_ All the games were popular, easy to find, and had hundreds of articles and guides and wiki pages available. She could understand the game without having ever played it, because Lila couldn’t afford real consoles and cartridges and controllers. That's okay; there were other ways. _

> I'm an artist, living with my brother, in an Asian country. We struggle, but we get by. My crazy insomnia keeps me up at all hours, all the time, but it's nice to sleep through the hottest part of the day. My brother is nice, but he's a bit of a jerk too. As brothers are!

_ Lila had never had a brother. She could paint and draw and even sketch, but since she didn't own a camera, she couldn't take pictures. What artist doesn't have pictures of their art? “A broke one!” she joked. _

She learned, gradually, what did and did not keep friends around. She learned how gullible people can be: how they just swallowed the lies and trusted every story and chose to believe what they were told. Honestly, Lila didn’t blame them: she believed the stories they told, too. 

Maybe it made her just as stupid as the rest of them.

Maybe it showed just how lost she really was.

* * *

When Lila was thirteen, she saved a real cat.

She’d been walking home from school when she saw it, scraggly and matted and chipped in the ears. It was black and grey and white, small and skinny and nimble. It saw her, let out a pitiful  _ miiirraooo, _ and darted away in fear.

Lila had lived most of her life around cats. They hunkered down in the alleyways and hunted mice, rats, and pigeons. They stole table scraps and tore through the garbage and pooped in the playground sandboxes. Her mother loved cats too, and she often left food and water out for the strays that lingered by the apartment.

So Lila did not hate cats, but she had never been particularly fond. 

And yet…

As the small cat raced across the asphalt to get away from Lila, she heard the dull roar of an engine. And when she looked up, a vehicle was making its way down the road. And it wasn’t slowing down. And the cat was suddenly shocked, deer in the headlights, frozen stiff…

Lila wasn’t sure what happened. In her mind, the memory was blank.

On the opposite side of the street, her schoolbag sat abandoned with its contents starting to scatter. The car, black and big and bellowing still, had honked its horn and squealed its breaks, but it continued onward as the owner yelled out profanities. Lila’s heart was fluttering, her lungs struggling, her whole body trembling. The cat--merely a kitten, she realised--was safe in her arms, tucked into her jacket, shivering and crying and pitifully weak.

It took her several seconds to stand. It took her several minutes to walk back to her school bag. It took several attempts at juggling cat, bag, and homework to make everything transportable. Somewhere along the way, she discovered that her knees were skinned and bleeding, her pants ripped open, with black pebbles embedded in her skin.

And that cat was wiggling. Lila grimaced.

“Be still, you mangey fleabag,” she growled as she flung her school bag over her shoulder. When both her hands were free, she used one to grip it by the scruff. “Do you even  _ have _ a family? Why’d you dart out like that?”

It glared at her and growled back. It  _ miao _ ’d again. 

Lila rolled her eyes, tucked it back into her jacket, and limped home.

For three days, Lila hid the cat in her bedroom. She fed it scraps from dinner, slices of hot dogs and pilfered cans of tuna, and she gave it water and attention and brushed out its fur. It pooped in her plant, chewed on her headphones, and cowered under her bed.

But she liked to think that, after three days, the cat kind of liked her. Lila’s mother didn’t seem any the wiser, and when Lila casually mentioned getting a pet…

“No,” her mother shot her down. “We’re moving soon, and we won’t be able to afford the quarantine-process for an animal.”

Lila hesitated. “Moving?”

“Yes, we’re moving to Paris in a couple of months and--”

_ “France?” _ Lila squeaked, her eyebrows shooting upward.

Her mother looked up from her tablet, frowning. “Yes, Lila. You already knew this. I told you months ago.”

“No,” Lila shook her head, searching her memories. “No, you never told me anything. You didn’t say anything about Paris or France or  _ moving.” _

For the first time in a long time, Lila watched her mamma click the power button on her tablet. Her brow was furrowed, either in confusion or rage, and Lila frantically tried to find evidence in her mind of their last discussion. Did she remember hearing about this? Had she lied to herself again? Had she forgotten or buried it or was her mother the one lying this time? What was the  _ truth? _

“Lila,” her mother started, firmly. “You were very much against moving, I understand. We’ve lived here a long time. But I’m getting a better job at the embassy in Paris, so we  _ have _ to move. Again, I’m sorry. But this has to happen.”

They were moving away, away from home and the cats and the school and the sandbox and the park and the  _ graveyard… _

It felt like Lila’s lungs were closing, her world was shrinking, her home was being taken away. Everything was swirling around the drain, slowly slipping down the pipe like it was clogged with too much soap and scum and dirt.

So Lila pushed her plate away, stood up, and asked, “May I be excused?”

“No, Lila, we obviously need to discuss--”

But Lila was already turning away and heading back to her room.

* * *

Google provided Lila with all the answers she needed. 

Her mother was probably moving to Paris on behalf of the Italian government because of the Akuma attacks. A magical villain dubbing himself  _ le Papillon _ was terrorising the citizens in the country’s capital, turning them into hideous monsters with supernatural powers: a man who could shape-shift into animals; a girl rearranged into a mass of pink sludge; and a being of stone so strong, the police couldn’t overcome it.

Lila would’ve discredited the tales for fantasy if she hadn’t already been to America and seen their superheroes up close. Why Italy wanted to monitor the Akumas was beyond Lila’s understanding; did they just want to make sure France wouldn’t militarise them? Was Italy wanting to steal the source of the Akumas? Or were they just looking out for their fellow European neighbours, hoping to step in when and if help was ever needed? 

Yet it seemed that Paris had the problem mostly under control. A pair of superheroes had popped up, red and black and green between them, and they were fixing all and any damage and injury caused. The Parisian Mayor was thankful, the local government supportive, the heroes gracious. Why did they have to  _ move? _

Lila considered throwing her laptop in a fit of rage, but instead, she kicked at her school bag. It tipped over and fell open, but nothing rolled out. 

She saw the cat out of the corner of her eye.

And Lila felt something ugly, scared, and grim twist and churn in her chest.

By next week, Lila no longer had a cat.

* * *

She did all the research she could before her mother moved them to Paris. 

Lila did research about the Akumas, about Ladybug and Chat Noir, about her new school and the students who went there. She read about Adrien Agreste and his elusive father. She scrolled through the social media accounts of her new classmates. She absorbed and consumed and devoured information, wondering what it would be like to be as free as that miraculous magic provided. At some point, she wondered about acquiring a magic jewel of her own and where she could get one.

Even on the train to the airport, Lila kept flicking through her phone, consuming article after article. Just last night, she had found an amateur journalist who seemed to specialise in following after the heroes, and Lila was making sure to open every webpage she could find.

“Come on, Lila, our stop is next.” Her mother stood up with her luggage in hand, but Lila barely moved. Her eyes were consuming another article; her mind too absorbed in soaking up the information like a sponge to register her mother speaking.

“Lila!”

“Yes, mamma,” Lila absently replied, standing up and hooking her fingers around the handle of her own suitcase. She still scrolled her phone screen with her other hand.

Her mother rolled her eyes and muttered,  _ “Teenagers!” _

Lila had already made a decision: she hated Paris. She hated Paris with every bone in her body, with every fibre of her being, with every nerve in her brain. Her father was French, and even he had hated the city of lights. Nothing but dirt and old history and pigeons, he had once said.

And because she hated Paris, she instantly hated the reason she was being forced to move there: Ladybug, the Akumas,  _ le Papillon. _ She despised all of it, all of them, and she wasn’t sure where to properly direct her anger. Ladybug, the hero who could win the battle but never the war? The citizens who couldn’t control their emotions and let themselves be turned? Or the villain himself, who had essentially started the whole fiasco? Her thoughts kept racing.

While Lila and her mother shuffled through security, Lila connected to the airport’s wifi and started downloading the videos from the amateur journalist. Akuma fights, interviews with the heroes, speeches by the mayor, analysis of Parisian’s changed lives: Lila could sort through most of it on the two-hour flight. 

As they waited to board their plane, she started to make her own conclusions. Ladybug’s confidence and composure made her likeable, but her quick-to-act and quick-to-judge attitude made her hot-headed and temperamental. Lila figured that could be used against her. And while Chat Noir seemed chill and happy, Lila could recognise a facade when she saw one: he was hiding something much bigger than his secret identity behind his jokes and toothy grins.

Maybe she was overthinking this.

Maybe she was just ready for a real challenge.

_ Maybe, _ Lila thought as she sat down in her aeroplane seat, next to her mother.  _ I’m just done trying to be good. _

* * *

It took them four days to unpack everything.

It took another three to rearrange the furniture to her mother’s liking.

And it took a long, hot afternoon, on the day before school started, for Lila to decorate her bedroom to her liking.

Their cheap, third-floor apartment had no air conditioning. It overlooked a cute little park, with trees and benches and water fountains, but none of that nature brought any relief to the stifling heat of the end of summer. Lila’s only window was open, but no breeze came through; and since it faced south, all of the morning sunlight came blatantly shining in.

She was busy packing her school bag, ruffling through papers and containers of pencils for everything she needed. Lila stuffed another notebook next to her binder, a couple of colourful pens, and a packet of tissues into her bag. She adjusted her jewellery in the mirror, double-checked her hair, and darted out into the hallway. Rage and annoyance and dread were building up in her chest, and she practically slammed her bedroom door behind her.

Lila didn’t want to go to school.

Her mother stopped her in the hallway. “Did you slam your door?” she inquired, her brow furrowing.

“Oh,” Lila blinked, schooling her expression into something less distraught. “No, I heard that too.” Her eyes rolled upwards and flickered back down. “I heard our upstairs neighbours  _ all _ night last night, too. They didn’t keep you up, did they?”

“No,” her mother said slowly, but she shrugged it off and went to the kitchen. “Anyway, there’s leftovers in the kitchen for lunch. Or dinner. I don’t know if you’ll be able to eat at the school so…”

Lila tuned her mother out, her fingers slipping into her pocket for her phone. She checked it for notifications or messages, but her feed was empty. Although a friend in Italy had texted her last night, Lila had yet to hear from anyone this morning.

“I’ll figure it out, mamma,” Lila said, talking over the end of her mother’s sentence. “It’s just around the corner, yeah? I can walk home if needed.”

Her mother stopped in the kitchen, glancing absently around. “Ooh, I must’ve left it in the bedroom…”

Lila blinked; the woman wasn’t even listening. Perhaps it was fair: Lila hadn’t been listening to her either.

“Have a good day, mamma,” Lila grumbled, heading to the front door, her shoulders hunched. But Lila didn’t hear her mother say anything until she was already on the other side, closing the door harshly behind her.

Lila pretended not to hear her mother’s frantic, concerned Italian goodbye.

The walk to Collège Françoise Dupont was not long. The park was pretty, Lila thought; the trees all had their own, little cages; the benches were iron and wood and rustic; and the fountains were actually running despite the drought. She couldn’t remember the park’s name, although she had seen it on the map. And she did her best to avoid it.

She didn’t want to become attached to any point in Paris. Not some pretty park square outside her room, not some pretty patisserie displays on her way to school, and  _ definitely _ not to some pretty boy on the advertisements on the streets.

But her first friend in Paris was...nice.

Alya Césaire had a smile like the sun. She was excited, clever, and talked fast. Lila connected with the other girl instantly, despite her promises to herself to remain detached.

“I was the newest student myself, a few weeks ago, so I totally get it,” Alya was saying, as they sat together on the steps. “But everyone here’s really nice-- well, except  _ Chloé-- _ and I’m sure you’ll make friends soon.”

“That’s a great reassurance, Alya, thank you,” Lila said, smiling in relief. “I don’t know how long my parents plan to stay located here, but I fear that it won’t be for long. I just don’t know how many friends I’ll be able to make.”

“Oh, girl, that does suck.” Alya pulled out her phone, and Lila blinked. A ladybug charm dangled from the corner. She knew that charm. “Here, let me give you my--”

“Wait,” Lila interrupted, leaning forward. “Is that-- Are you the  _ Ladyblogger?” _

Alya hesitated, but then her face broke into a great, big smile. She wiggled her phone. “Yep,” she said, her chest puffing up. “You’ve heard of it?”

“Have I  _ heard _ of it?” Lila gushed, leaning back and pressing a hand to her chest. “I watched all your videos on the plane! I read all the articles I could! It’s so well done and fleshed out, you’re so thorough! Super informative!”

“Super, huh?” Alya replied with a smirk, and together the two of them burst into giggles over their shared joke. But then Alya sobered up, and she cleared her throat. “I hope it helped you.”

“It really did,” Lila confirmed. “I was so scared, hearing about the Akuma and the attacks.”

“Being informed, finding information, and providing resources has been my top priority,” Alya explained, ticking off her list on her fingers. “I was hoping that, by being honest and transparent with what was happening in this city, we could spread the word. And people may not be so scared. And instead, we can be brave.”

“I’m definitely not scared anymore,” Lila said, her voice low. “Still worried, but not scared. Thank you, Alya, for all your hard work.”

Alya blinked, but then she reached over and pulled Lila into a hug. Lila blinked in surprise before she cautiously returned it, shocked that someone would be so affectionate with  _ her, _ so quickly.

Lila could not remember the last time she had received a hug.

“Thank you, Lila,” Alya mumbled. “Thank you.”

The sudden bloom of warmth in her chest was terrifying. Remembering her promise to herself, she swallowed it down, willed it away, and forced her brain to refocus. No attachments. No strings. No friends.

Definitely no friends.

“O-Of course,” Lila stammered out, slowly drawing away just as Alya pulled back. “Actually…”

She shyly glanced at the ground and folded her hands in her lap, trying to figure out what to say. The story came into bloom like a rafflesia: grandiose, beautiful, and incredible, but all so sickly sweet. She played absently with the hem of her jacket, and Alya leaned back in.

“What is it, Lila?” she asked, her eyes behind her glasses bright, her expression both concerned and earnest.

“I was wondering if I could repay you with a story?” Lila said, her voice soft as she nervously glanced back up. “Something terrifying happened my first day here, and… You seem like the right person to tell.” Alya froze, curiosity plain on her face. “I’d really appreciate it,” Lila added swiftly.

Alya firmly nodded, making to put her phone back into her pocket. “What kind of story?”

Lila reached out and gently stopped her, leaving Alya’s phone within easy reach. “I don’t know if you’d want to record this but... 

“Well, you see, Ladybug herself had to rescue me on my first day in Paris…”


End file.
